


The Vista from Pale Shores

by lye_tea



Series: Red String of Fate [2]
Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Angst, F/M, Loosely interpreted "Romance", Psychological Drama, Red String of Fate, Reincarnation, Tragedy, bildungsroman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lye_tea/pseuds/lye_tea
Summary: Love is the tenderest depredation. Sequel to "That Narrow and Savage Road."





	The Vista from Pale Shores

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the cautionary A/N.

**CAUTIONARY A/N:** Sequel to  _That Narrow and Savage Road._  The writing style is "unconventional" to put it mildly; I had the *Rückenfigur motif and a stubbornly particular voice stuck in mind when I wrote this stream-of-consciously. There are a few semi-graphic medical descriptions. HEAVY angst in the form of sardonic narration/commentary. 

Glossary and footnotes at the end. 

 

* * *

 

** The Vista from Pale Shores **

 

Je veux bâtir pour toi, Madone, ma maîtresse,  
Un autel souterrain au fond de ma détresse,  
Et creuser dans le coin le plus noir de mon coeur,  
Loin du désir mondain et du regard moqueur,  
Une niche, d'azur et d'or tout émaillée,  
Où tu te dresseras, Statue émerveillée.

 _À une Madone_ , Charles Baudelaire

I'll build for thee, Madonna, mistress mine,  
deep in my crypt of woe a secret shrine;  
— carve in the blackest corner of my heart,  
from worldly lust and mocking eyes apart,  
a niche, with gold and blue enamel blent,  
to hold thy statue filled with wonderment.

 _To a Madonna_ , Lewis Piaget Shanks translation

 

There is a place in Okinawa amongst the bluffs and above the sands, a separation between azure and haze, a departure from time and space. There is a house in Okinawa against the shores and atop the waves, a nestled haven of tatami and age, a bastille gilt in charm and quaint.

The road to Okinawa to the house is long and sparse and devoid of sound. The winding road through derelict groves and jaded cliffs where they drove through pine and apple and hilly clefts. Past the hamlet where pamphlets sell and travelers' gifts and bonfire tales to a castle where a maiden comes—to rest to forget to convalesce.

A girl and her liege linked in grief in this quiet and calm serene, in this desolate place and house marine.

\--

He uncrowns her queen.

In this match of chess as the candles burn, they sip their tea and wait to see, to ponder and plot and parry wits. He is ruthless (as is she) and so the game proceeds in marble clinks and canny looks. She plies her gambits and her eyes lambaste as he teeters the knight and demolishes the rook and there they languish on the chabudai's side in degradation with the spent and molested queen. He pours her more tea (which she rejects). She peels off his haori (divests her armor). Then with a thin-wry smile, she reaps from his blunder and harvests his queen. He's dethroned hers so now she robs him of his.

In this match of chess as the cypresses murmur and cicadas croak against the turn to summer, he cunningly goads and she forgoes. He teases her with artful wiles while she conspires (though in vain). A nonchalant en passant, hanging pawns, then the fatal trébuchet. In capitulation, she beheads her king.

"Another time, Sesshomaru-sama. I'm too tired this evening."

Graciously, he acknowledges the forfeit and assists her to stand. She is pale and frail (still) and he feels the spiny knobs through the silk and absorbs the skeletal valleys of her face. Her lucent eyes and translucent cheeks and ashen lips and wasted state. A month has lapsed on this isle and three since her ordeal, from ammoniac wards to an idyllic cloister on the southern coast. Alone with this beautiful girl, his lady-child, a pearl enshelled.

She shivers though the night is warm and the air is mild. He administers her the chalky pills, the philters sustaining her life (and his as well). Sedated she stays, cradled in his arms, as he carries her to the futon then lays her down and mantles her meager frame with a heavy duvet. Solemn, he gazes upon her bundled form (her bounded fate). The little soul of a ghost he has maimed. Like a wraith she clings because for all her defiance and woe she knows (as does he) that she has nowhere else to go. Has nothing left but him and this.

He extinguishes the lamps and draws her close and for the first time since that disastrous night, she sanctions his company.

\--

Her rehabilitation from the accident proves arduous and long. He watched as the surgeons gouged then stitched her up as they gorged her full of sanative toxins with Tenseiga by his side should they fail. The sword must only be drawn as a last resort. Her physicians succeeded and therefore he—benevolent and just—shall reciprocate and donate a new wing to their hospital. A magnificent memento-memorial of granite and gold.

Then he whisked her away to this island's point, the vestige of a kingdom long destroyed. In the afternoons, under patulous, ocher boughs, he guards through shaded, fluttering drapes as she winces through physical therapies. She cries out as the expert PT forcibly massages the atrophied muscles in her calf, aligning the limb and straightening her foot against his rough, proficient palms. He hears the gnashing of metal bolts and artificially attached ligaments. He bears through her travails and strangles the impulse, the visceral urge, to maul the man.

Until her tortured whimpers become intolerable.

"You are done for today," he pronounces.

"But sir, there are still thirty minutes left. Miyo-chan needs to push herself so she can regain full function of her legs."

"Can you not see she is in tears?" he counters, perilously low.

Helmeted with his serious and professional and sound advice, the therapist postures to dissuade. "Sir, I understand you're concerned, but what I do is for her own good.  _This_  is why I don't approve of family members attending sessions. They often let their emotions get the best of them and distract the patient from focusing."

"Ito-san," Miyo says cautiously. "Maybe we should stop for today. I can finish the exercises by myself."

The mulish man disregards her warning (his lifeline). "Exactly what I mean, sir. I still maintain that Miyo-chan would be further in her rehabilitation if we had used the appropriate facilities of my clinic. It's not too late. You could bring her—"

Sesshomaru brusquely cuts him off, "You will do what I pay you for. She remains here."

Ito scowls at the man's retreating back. He has dealt with finicky and patronizing clients before, but this one is different. Almost predatory in his scrutiny and always exhibiting a mien of something unfathomable, something  _off_  and categorically uneasy. "Your uncle is rather overprotective," he says lamely.

"He's not my uncle," she mumbles quietly.

\--

Through the bathroom's twin-paneled window she steals a peek toward the famous lines of white and swells of placid teal. But the lacquered pair only reflect the nebulous brume of rising dusk dusted in ocean gauze. Though high the house's promontory looms, the evergreens tower more and their needle-hands obscure the view to the twilit sky. Then a streak of light, resilient and bold, filters through and basks the room. The countertops glow from an invasive sheen of gloaming fog and peppered, piney greens and the faucet's chrome eerily shines as if polished by absinthe and winter mint.

She snaps shut the wooden blinds and gingerly sinks into the awaiting bath. He has agreed to take her down to the beach once she is better and sturdier, can walk a hundred steps without faltering, falling, needing (she clutches the tub's tiled ledge) his solid support, his infallible might.  _The tides can be mercurial_. A slip of her feet and swept to sea. Instead, she submerges into the ivory depths of ceramic and vanilla foam. Her vision battles against the fluorescent bulbs as sharp, new twitches and fixed, sore strains batter her flesh. The tokens of healing, of muscle repairing, trauma receding, body accepting. Leaning back, she closes her eyes and her mind.

He finds her asleep with the wan shadow of a smile coaxing her lips. The water has grown tepid and goosebumps mar the parts of her skin exposed to the creeping chill. The protruding bones of her clavicle and breasts and ribs and hips rise in conjunction with concave torso planes. He can encircle her arm and nearly her thigh with just one hand. She smells of death and stagnant rot, like a mummified lily bandaged with mites. He didn't realize, not till now, how bad things have gotten or how worse they could. From down the hall, Tenseiga pulsates inside its hallowed vault. He scorns the pleading sword and gently lifts the tiny girl from her bath. She stirs from the movement and for a moment looks as if she will cry.

"You must eat more," he says, brushing back a damp lock of hair.

She eyes him with confusion then resentment before settling on resignation. "Could you help me up? I don't think I can manage."

So he towels her dry, his hanging tresses shielding her like a trellis wreathed in silver vines. Wearily she twines her arms around his neck, snuggles into his chest and almost forgets.

\--

She is surprised to see the granny in the kitchen scouring pans with a pot of porridge stewing nearby. The teak table gleams, revitalized from a lemony spray. A feast of succulent pickles and charbroiled fish tempts her reluctant appetite.

"How come you're here, obaa-chan? It's not Tuesday."

The crowing crone ladles a bowl and proudly serves her hearty toil. "From now on, I will be here every day, eight to five. Your guardian told me he's worried about your health. You haven't been eating well."

"He asked you to monitor me?"

"No, child. To help you in your recovery."

"How?"

"With whatever you need. Now, eat."

The browned ayu winks from the china plate, near where lotus roots and natto beans and daikon shoots serenade. Miyo enthusiastically picks apart a paprika-sprinkled belly sliver, dipping the meat into the zesty sauce. A trickle of mirin into the soy coupled with a dash of sesame and lime. Grandma Chieko is a perceptive cook—as is she in all and sundry things—and so she doles out another portion of the fattened rice and plans how to similarly plump up this child. The pantry is dismal and the fridge is bleak. Proper groceries will be the top priority.

\--

He is governed by routine and they conform to his decrees.

The old woman arrives precisely at eight to cook and clean, to perform the various chores for this strange, secluded house. This cavernous manor that creaks in timber moans and hums with the rush of antique pipes. Her employer is rarely seen but pays punctual and handsomely. On the seldom occasions their paths do meet, he is polite (albeit severe) and tersely asks (dictates and interrogates) on the girl's progress and dining habits. Once satisfied with the report (or something of the sort, hard to gauge) he dismisses her to resume her tasks.

The PT comes every Monday and Friday, commutes the three-hour ferry ride to and back from the office where he normally, lordly presides. The best in his field this side of Japan, now shamefully reduced to paltry household calls. Even if the compensation is ten times his standard fee, it invariably galls him to no end.

One afternoon, Ito chances to query the granny, "I've been meaning to ask you something," (darts to check that no one's around) "What do you know of our employer?"

Chieko wipes her gnarled, freckled hands on the snowy apron. "Not much, just that he usually resides in Tokyo."

"He's very secretive, isn't he?"

"Some people are more private than others."

"Yes, but don't you find it odd how there's no one else here besides them?"

She reaches for another dish to soap. "Some families are small."

"She mentioned that he's not her uncle. In fact, I highly doubt they're actually related. Where are her parents? Shouldn't they be the ones taking care of her?"

"Ito-san, may I ask  _why_  you are asking these questions? He is our employer. She is your patient. It's rude to pry into their personal involvements."

"It's just…I don't know…peculiar. There's something unnerving about him."

She says nothing more except to wish him a safe trip home. And that was the last time they spoke. A few days later while chopping spinach for lunch, she greets a cheery young man who introduces himself as the replacement for Ito-san. Exuberant and complaisant and entirely unsuspecting.

\--

Under her elderly caregiver's clever ministration and culinary cajoling, Miyo gains back some weight and strength. Although not enough to appease his dour mindset and profound unrest, he deems her improvement sufficient to fulfill his pledge. And so tonight they will go to the muted banks of moon-kissed sands and lapis waves. She wants to relish the blazing rays of an aureate, undaunted sun but he needs to show, to imbue her with the euphony of stars inaudible to mortal hearts.

He bends to one knee and tentatively she steps into his embrace. From her entombed memories as a girl five hundred years ago, she deduces his meaning and intent. In the abyss of night, on this precipice shorn of unwanted eyes, he brings her to flight. She awes at the thrashing of raw-whipped winds and feral freedom, at the exhilaration privy to swans and hawks—and deities. How awful it must be for him and his kind to be trammeled by spell-roped nets, mutilated and condemned to walk. To crawl when once they soared. Conflicted, she clasps on tight as he descends them to the shore.

He carefully deposits her onto the silty ground and bids her to follow into the ocean.

"Do not be afraid. I want to show you something."

She takes his hand and lets him guide her toward the deep and boundless and stilling sea. In this juncture where she turns to confront and brave (nearly relents) at the seamless ternion of merging sky and land and watery expanse.

"Sesshomaru-sama, I—"

"Look up and listen closely," he interjects, whispering tremors down her nape. "Listen to the stars, for they are wiser than any immortal or man."

"But stars are just masses of plasma. How can they  _speak_?"

He gives her a faint, pitying smile. "Do you truly believe they are merely that?"

She debates as scholastic science opposes empirical reality. Dispelling her skepticism, he tilts up her head and compels her to see. And hear. And sense. The quavering cadence, the lilted, mystic oration from somewhere far and infinite. An empyreal ode and orison so soft and surreal that in a second—as if imagined—it's swiftly gone.  _But was there._  And still is here, thrumming in her soul. Alight and thrust into the sublime as if she has just touched the scorching, squirming core of omnipotence. Immolated then crucified then excoriated and revived.

"Wh-what were they saying?" she breathes, knees shaking.

"That they are sad to see you in pain."

"How do you know?"

He doesn't reply, only examines her wistfully while steadying her stance. Her eyes widen in comprehension as she glances upon the dimmed crescent emblazoned on his brow. The birthmark of a scion to the moon and stars.

\--

He prowls the tatami-covered chambers and glossy engawa corridors like an agitated and recalcitrant beast, a caged lion famished and baited and supremely dangerous. Fluidly patrols and stalks with an ironically apposite feline grace, past feeble shoji that quiver as the atramentous fingers of his figure penetrate the washi membranes. On the reticent, futile hunt for something ineffable, inimitable, glorious and wondrous and wholly atrocious. A wayward draft sneaking through the cedar sill stifles and dies just before reaching the painted fawn of the fusuma partitioning her rooms.

She whirls up, fumbling for the flashlight, and tenses as she scans the alcoves, lintels, and jambs with the limited security of an LED beam. There's nothing there in the soundless, static night, not a breeze or squeak or rustling of lonesome trees. Alone. Then instinctively: "Sesshomaru-sama?"

The fusuma slides open and discloses his regal face, his inscrutable countenance.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. I wasn't sleeping."

"You need to rest."

"Would—would you like to come in?"

He takes a step and breaches the tacit contract at her invite. She shifts on the futon to grant him space and he concedes. Neither speaks. Stilted. Prim. Rigid and edged. She sneezes—

"Allergies," hastily explains.

"Why were you not asleep? It is late."

"My legs were aching. I haven't been doing the strengthening drills as I should have," she admits, skimming the long grisly scar down her shin.

"You should be more diligent."

"It's just hard to go through them by myself. The new PT isn't as strict as Ito-san was, and Chieko-obaa-chan is too busy with other stuff to make sure I finish all the exercises. Not that I should bother her. She's been too kind already."

"It's her duty to help you."

"I don't want to be a burden," she mutters.

"You are not a burden."

She jolts in awareness at a haunting familiarity she can't quite define yet whines to be cosseted and recognized. Like a passing thought, an absent assertion made then buried long ago. Like déjà vu (folie à deux).

"Sesshomaru-sama…if it's not too much trouble…could you help me stretch?"

Composed, he assuages the knotting spasms, kneading into the taut, twisted sinews of her soleus and lateralis—pausing at the sartorius. The apex of her thigh and the apogee of his restraint. He relinquishes his grasp just as her hand grazes his stripes.

"Thank you. For showing me the stars."

And incredulous, she honors his lips with hers.

\--

He almost wants to believe to succumb and make amends. Not that he needs to redeem or correct or absolve. Apodictic, authoritative. Invincible and immune.

He will love her till the end of time (till his own divine demise).

\--

By the withered banyan trunks sits a shisa with mouth agape and flashing fangs of coarse, sharpened stone. Duteously, Chieko brushes leaves off the statue's mane and washes away sap and grimy stains. She sings as she cleans, trilling myths and hymns and invoking protection against red-haired imps.

"Miyo-chan, hand me that rag in the bucket. With Obon coming up, the spirits are getting feisty. And since this estate has been uninhabited for so long, it'll take at least two weeks to thoroughly cleanse everything out."

Miyo passes her the moistened cloth. "Will you be staying on Kume for the festival?"

"Oh yes. Even my son who lives in Osaka will be coming. My family has been here for generations. We can track our lineage back to the times before there was a kingdom or polities."

"Did you ever want to live somewhere less…remote?" she concludes diplomatically.

Chieko chuckles. "When I was young, I also found this island terribly boring. Even Naha seemed like the grandest of cities. So I ran away and my sister became the village noro in my place."

"You were going to be a priestess?" she asks, astonished.

"It's tradition for the eldest daughter in my family. Legend says that the first noro in my line was the one who called upon a shisa to defeat a powerful dragon and later made a pact of fealty with that very guardian. Which is why you see these statues all over the isle."

Miyo frowns. "It doesn't really seem fair to force a young woman into becoming a priestess just because of a story."

"Not all stories can be discounted. There is a reason why traditions persist."

The granny winks mysteriously before diverting her attention back to scrubbing the sooty clay (dedicated and attentive as if paying homage).

\--

Another restless day, another sleepless night. Umbras on the wall, whispers down the hall. Slowly she walks—tugged and reeled—through the barren rooms and under ornate ranma cranes then down the three-leveled entrance way then out to the gravelly lane, bordered by impenetrable shrubs and an unassailable, split stone palisade. Beyond the gate, the forest sprawls across the ravine and over slopes lush with fauna and floral trails.

She stops to sharply inhale. The air is thick with the musk of summer with the salty tang of spindrifts far and the dewy aroma of hibiscuses near. Their wide petals shy yet valiantly bright under the pale moonglow. The waxing moon swathed by clouds and hurtling close (impossibly close).

Gasping, she stumbles back as an enormous canine entity lands in the enclosed yard. The pebbles and pavement rumble as its colossal feet cleave the earth. Growling, it bares its teeth and shakes its prodigious head. Almost imperceptibly, it jerks its tail as if to say, to summon and command. Trepidatious, she approaches. She knows not to touch its silky fur. For it's not a dog to be petted but a god demanding worship. It sniffs. She stiffens. Then its tongue slithers out, frothy and hot, and laves her cheek with an incongruous finesse. Shocked and locked, she braces for incisors and claws. And instead is met with gentle caresses and satin kisses as the beast transforms into a brilliant being—exalted and gorgeous and breath-taking.

"Sesshomaru-sama, was that…was that your true form?"

"Were you afraid, little one?"

"No," she answers plainly. "I was stunned. But not afraid. You were so majestic, so indescribable. I feel privileged that you revealed yourself to me."

"I would not hide myself from you."

"I know. I just wish others could also see how amazing you looked."

"They'd flee, for they fear and can never understand the unknown."

"It's ok. I can understand for them."

Her arms thread through his to drag him down. And he defers. Intoxicating is her scent and captivating is her smile. Her supple skin, her pliant mouth. From the tips of her soles to her tippy nose, she is everything he dreams—all and more.  _Even more_ the second time.

\--

Freshly laundered kimono in vibrant colors, gossamer sundresses, linen T-shirts, poplin dress-shirts, and dainty tabi billow under the wired line. Rich, pulpy watermelon slices preen from a porcelain platter on the paulownia stool, proudly displaying eagerly chewed rinds and a mounting pile of glistening seeds. The fruit's saccharine luster has attracted a buzzing fly, but Miyo merely shoos it away with a languid flick of the bamboo fan. Pleasantly full and drowsy, she lounges back on the buckwheat cushion.

Music resonates from a radio somewhere inside the house, vague old-timey lyrics about star-crossed lovers and missed opportunities. She wishes obaa-chan weren't so inclined to playing those dolorous tunes. The day is too lovely for such despondency. Should change the station to something lively and charged to animate them as they rampage through the rooms armed with disinfectants and scrubbing pads. The verandah still has to be mopped (for a good third rinse) and the sudare screens snipped of loosened frays.

Lazily, she moves to rise but immediately collapses down as an intense cramp assaults her lower abdomen. A wetness pooling between her legs, anomalous and searing, utterly disorienting. She hurriedly lifts aside the printed cotton to inspect. Sticky, slender, crimson sluices, the pungency of iron, of blood old and churned then unexpectedly released. Her first period in half a year. Amenorrhea, dysmenorrhea. The cessation then the beginning. The monthly anticipation a woman undergoes from menarche to menopause. A fact of life that has eluded her for months and now returns with potency.

She winces at another spiking pang. Has always dreaded her periods and their messiness. But as annoying as they are, they're an organic course to be endured until the uterus is exhausted or conceives. An absurdity for her even in the far-flung, murky future. For as long as she lingers by his side in this ersatz existence and hollow state.

Yokai do not easily procreate. A daiyokai most of all. Too fundamentally incompatible even within their own race, too elevated and removed. For all his thousands and thousands of years, the old dog general had begotten only two sons. Not that she wants to have children anytime soon because she's only eighteen because there are so many things she has first to learn because (she quells a surge of panic)  _because_ that would permanently, incontrovertibly bind her to him. Of course (she reassures herself) it'd never come to that. She won't allow it. And neither will he. On this one thing they and nature are in complete accord.

But nor could she leave and mature and marry and enjoy a normal family. What is she even? His lover-prisoner, mistress-whore? Or something worse? He half raised her in this life too. Nurtured and contrived, shaped and lied. Enticed the most idolizing and sincerest love and now this ambivalent hate. Agape, anagapesis. The induction then the ending. Numb, she stares off into the distorted verdant distance, at a glimpse of dying hope, of a quixotic vision diminishing.

\--

At the butsudan, she ignites a filial incense for her father and a macabre one for Rin. The sandalwood collides with ripened peaches, their cloying fumes swarming over the austere ebony tablets and burnished votive bowls. She places a yellow chrysanthemum in front of Rin's ihai before marching nobly to her own sepulture like a mabui hideously carved and severed and now vengefully seeking for its body.

Determined, she traverses the spacious house.

Beyond the manse (beyond her reach) spans a splendid world doused in the thundering of drums and resounding firework booms, the clapping of hands and clacking of geta heels. Caught in the zeal of Obon, the festival revelers cavort and twirl amongst the mewling howls of hungry ghosts and the gyrations of lantern smoke. Within their dwellings, upon laden altars, sweets and flowers and sake flourish for ancestral spirits recalled home. Graves swept and spruced in welcome for the dead who visit to bless. This jubilee of souls—of celebration, commemoration.

Poised, she enters his darkened quarters.

Enthroned upon an embroidered zabuton, he studies her. She is deliberate in her strides as she crosses the woven mats and lissomly seats before him. Her simple komon flows unadorned and in stark contrast to his formal, crested robes. Features blank (a mirror of his own) and bearing grave. Betraying nothing yet simultaneously hinting.

"Sesshomaru-sama," she says, mellow and deferent in tone. "For tonight…if you will permit me…I wish to stay with you."

His amber slits pierce into her. "Why is that?"

She peers back with luminous and open orbs. "I'm tired of being alone. I don't want to be sad anymore."

Her voice's blunt candor jars him. And the pulse in his neck violently throbs as she toys with a strand of his sterling hair and delicately traces over his hardened jaw, along his pointed ears, down his patrician bridge, across his frigid lips. Her body burns as she presses in and brands his skin. She unties the sash around his waist, bypassing the fabric dividing them, and straddles his lap and smiles without guile, with something enchanting and nearing love.

He pins her flush against him, nips the flimsy material shrouding her breasts, shredding obi and iris-dotted folds. Sans sang-froid, aplomb embalmed. Avaricious and piacular, he wants to pleasure her replete and thorough, twice and thrice and endless times, but greedily she takes him keen and quick. And he obeys, desperate to taste. The wine of her blood that simmers like the petrichor from a brisk dawn shower, fortified with raspberry and honeyed mist. The tight, dry heat of her sweet, little cunt. Gripping him hard and harsh as she arches and moans.

"Let me stay," she begs as she drives him blind and insensate.

"Yes," he raggedly exhales into the column of her slim, white throat.

"Like before—"

— _He cannot believe._

"Like when—"

— _He does not care._

"You taught me the stars—"

— _He only wants._

"In the clearing—"

— _For her to forgive._

"And I said—"

— _For Miyo to say:_

"Rin wishes to be with Sesshomaru-sama."

The repugnant proclamation awakens him. He seizes her brittle wrist, halts her skinny hips, squeezes her jagged knee, and sees her bladed eyes. Coldly he hisses, "What did you just say?"

She regards him with an innocent and adoring expression. "That Rin wishes to be with Sesshomaru-sama. On this night and all nights to come.  _Forever_. Just like you wanted."

Savagely, he shoves her off as if she were an imprecation that scalds and flays. He struggles to modulate his erratic breathing despite roiling and seething from fury and pure unbridled disgust. At her. And himself.

"That's enough, Miyo. Leave."

"What's wrong Sesshomaru-sama? Has Rin displeased you in some way?"

"Get out.  _Now_ ," he snarls.

Triumphant, she smirks and stands. Twofold he defiled her, when he took her virginity then pillaged her identity, but now she's claimed her retribution.

\--

A week has passed since he abandoned her in an icy ire, since that vivid, lurid, treasonous night. She has no idea where he has gone or where she will go (what will happen next). He was so angry, so repulsed and menacing the morning he left that she thought he would morph into his bestial form to rend and devour. To unequivocally obliterate. Or opt for an effortless execution via a deft lancing of nail—straight through the jugular.

She listlessly sets aside her soup and spoon (delicious the broth may be). Obaa-chan still comes every day (that's a good sign at least) and stays late into the evening though she doesn't know (or wouldn't say) where Sesshomaru went.  _Run_ , intuition flares. Morbidly, she wonders what would aggravate him more: discovering she has fled or warranting her malicious presence here. Of course, in either case, he will inflict a most merciless upbraiding first.

"Obaa-chan, I'm going out for a stroll."

Pursing her lips, Chieko appraises her charge. The master explicitly mandated not to let the girl wander out of sight. "I'd be happy to accompany you, child."

"I'll be ok. I won't be gone long."

"Don't go too far."

"I won't."

"Be careful of the steps. They're slippery after it rains."

"I know."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"I'm sure."

"Don't forget to—"

But Miyo has already disappeared out the door.

The islet sways, drained from the holiday's gaieties. The mangroves droop in mocking simulation of her own fatigue while a kingfisher wobbles to catch its aquatic prey, stripped of its titular dignity. Disheartened and lethargic, she perches upon a mossy boulder overlooking the crisp cerulean waterfront and unravelling, scraggly, craggy steeps.

That stunt that she pulled was contemptible. Had meant to damage him as selfish and pernicious and perversely as he did her and maybe more (much much more) out of childish spite. Had wanted to char him blistering and eternal so that even his godlike abilities could never patch and restore, not even cicatrize. But that all only singed her instead. Filled her with immense remorse and guilt. Try and try she just can't muster the animosity required for a commensurate revenge. Just petty jabs, sick and pathetic—altogether pointless.

Her own experiences and memories as Rin contend for ascendancy over a single soul. Rin's constancy versus her hostility. And she isn't sure she can prevail because in this lifetime too he had been just as wonderful by promising her the moon and stars and sun and sky, to cherish her day and night. But until when? Until she is old and ready (or he) to say goodbye. Infirmity, senescence, decrepitude. The ugliest (inevitable) trinity of humanity. Would he tire of her once she is senile and bedbound, kill her himself? Then roam the seven continents for his next Rin, to repeat this nightmarish cycle all over again? She'd been so overwhelmed by his magnetic passion and indomitable possession to even speculate on how a relationship with an amaranthine demon could unfold.

_Relationship._

She scoffs. This can't even constitute a sordid affair. This is consummate madness.

Everlasting.

And in this trifling moment of that inescapable flux (deprived of even a minute reprieve) she loathes herself more than him. For feeling this way, for being so weak, for wanting to apologize and propitiate though he has wounded her too. Callous and countless and egotistic. But perhaps (worst of all) she still might love him just a teeny-tiny substantial bit. Frustrated, she throws a rock off the cliff and dares to recklessly consider—

Her phone rings.

"Mama?"

Choking back tears, she rambles that she's ok, misses her too, everything's fine, will be all right.

\--

Jaken is judicious not to comment on his sovereign's unforeseen arrival and had imposingly ordered the maids to scamper and prepare. Sesshomaru-sama hasn't noticed his sedulous labors (as is predicted). But something has transpired, something miscalculated and awry. Miyo isn't here. That imprudent hoyden! She must've angered him beyond compromise. And either lies discarded or dead.

"Sesshomaru-sama!" he gallantly gambles. "I hope everything has been arranged to your satisfaction. Sh-should I also organize Miyo's room if…for when she appears?"

"Her room is my room. Unless you have been negligent in its upkeep, there's no issue."

Coughs in alarm. "Certainly not, my lord! I wouldn't dare! Might I ask when she would be here?"

"You may not."

Squelches hysterics. "Forgive me, Sesshomaru-sama, I did not mean to overstep! There is just one last thing I must inform you. Gobodo-sama has requested that you join her for dinner tonight. What should I relay to her?"

"Have a car brought around in an hour. And do not bother me again with irritating questions."

Jaken swallows a shudder. Something is definitely amiss. He should tread warily,  _absolutely_  make no mention of that one ostensibly imperative but actually trivial quandary regarding a half-brother…

\--

She receives her son with a mischievous glint, with amusement vellicating her berry lips, and drolly states, "Sesshomaru, I was worried that you've stood me up."

"This better be important."

"Are you hungry? I recommend the veal. It's very tender, just recently weaned."

Sesshomaru rakes her with a frosty glower, decisively flipping open the gold-embossed menu and perusing each itemized delight with emphatic attention. "Why are we here?"

"I wanted to see you before departing for France, mon chou."

He bristles at the term. "I thought you disliked the Europeans. Boorish, you described them."

"Business is business. But enough unpleasantries. Dis-moi, mon fil, would the name 'Céline' suit me well?" she quips.

"Call yourself whatever you wish."

"You're no fun. Maybe 'Estelle' is a better choice? Non? Peut-être pas. It matters not, for names are changeable—"

"—Power is absolute," he finishes caustically, exasperated by her jests.

She confers him a vicious grin. "And what a power that girl holds over you. To have impelled you to do the things you did. Are you glad, Sesshomaru? Are you proud?"

"You cannot possibly be—"

A waiter rosily interrupts. "I hope your evening is proceeding enjoyably. Would you care for some refreshment? Might I suggest—"

"The Chambertin Grand Cru," he peremptorily ordains.

His mother laughs as the server scurries away to fulfill the commandment. "How imperious you can be! That boy is probably thoroughly cowed. Much like your pretty doll from what I've discerned. Has she been faring well?"

He ignores the barb (mildly muses on the virtues of matricide). "I refuse to entertain your distasteful curiosity. Or your insufferable meddling."

She arches a brow in feigned insult. " _My_  insufferable meddling? What of your own unsavory interferences in her life? How does it feel, Sesshomaru, to have butchered the very soul you strived to protect? Or are you still misguided in thinking that was 'love'?"

"Hypocritical words from you. As I recall, you left father on a caprice."

She casually shrugs. "I did. Your father and I were quite fond of each other but shared nothing deeper, and yet, even I can distinguish the difference between love and obsession."

He clenches the wineglass's fragile stem (oblivious to the vessel's present emptiness or the speck of crimson starting to bloom from his rims) and mordantly retorts, "Was that meant to chasten me? A miserable attempt if so."

Somber, his mother sighs. "I have no desire to argue with you, my son. I simply advise that you evaluate your motives for your own sake and peace. But do as you will. As you have always done."

They say nothing more as the waiter reappears with the ruby bottle twinkling like vernal blood hemorrhaged then sealed behind crystal. A paean to the red that has subsided from the pristine perimeters of his sclera.

\--

Scintillating high-rise lights overpower the tenebrous night. Incandescent neon signs and tenuous highways far and wide. Before the skyline view, he meditates on his mother's words. On the road he has taken. On the one he'll now pursue. Resolute, he turns away from panes of glass and steel.

She will yield to him as she has always done (in this, the last, and the next).

\--

The sour odor of pinguid and putrid overcooked fillets saturate the plastic cubbies of the malfunctioned fridge. Chieko has trekked to town to retrieve a handyman to come and see what can be done. The compressor motor has apparently short-circuited, or maybe it was the leaking Freon? Regardless of the cause, the kitchen swims in clutter and chaos as Miyo clears out the shelves and catalogues what to toss. Which seems to be anything (everything) that the unabating humidity has infected.

A warble from the Imperial Chinese ormolu clock strikes the quarter hour and startles her. Likely an oblation from Qianlong himself, she scathingly notes. The phoenix automaton flaps open its beak, pompously roosted atop the finely glazed baluster vase decorated with elaborate peony garlands and an elegant scene of a literati retreat. A superlative timepiece like all the other numerous others scattered throughout his legions of villas (her oubliettes). She wants to peevishly rip off each of their gilt and enamel dials. This paradoxical collection of an immortal horologist. Into this one fascination of his she will intrepidly delve. Eventually. Once he returns. Once she's guaranteed his clemency. And that will most likely be very, very,  _very_  far in the future.

Vexed, she trashes a tragically spoiled strawberry parfait garnished with rancid cream just as the doorbell chimes. Before she can react, the worn cherry kitchen door swings aside to announce a man with puppy ears and silvery hair.

"Hey, sorry to barge in like this. I tried the front, and no one answered. You might not remember me, but we sort of met a few months before in Tokyo."

"You're Inuyasha-sama," she says amiably. "You and your wife once took care of me."

"Yeah. Yeah we did. You were a sweet kid, Rin. Sorry. Miyo. It just slipped out. So how've you been?" he awkwardly inquires, ruffling his bangs.

"I've been all right. Would you like something to drink?"

"Uhh, sure. Whatever is fine. Did Sesshomaru leave you by yourself?"

She measures out some tea and sets the kettle to boil. "He left two weeks ago, and I haven't heard from him since. But Chieko-obaa-chan has been here every day. She's the housekeeper."

"Did something happen between you two? What did that asshole do this time?"

"He didn't do anything. Inuyasha-sama, why are you here?"

"To check up on you."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Jaken is quite the chatterbox once you get him riled up. A few punches help too."

"But—"

"Miyo," he doggedly continues. "I came here to let you know that you don't have to stay with him. You have choices. I can help you leave."

Her eyebrows knit together in bewilderment. "How? Also  _why_? Why would you risk yourself? He'd kill you."

"Because it's not right what he did to you. And…" he sheepishly averts his gaze. "Because I didn't prevent Kagome from telling him that she spotted you coincidentally in this era."

"It's not your fault. You couldn't have known. Neither did Kagome-sama. I'll be fine. But I won't run away,"  _I won't desert my mother._  "Thank you for coming to see me, Inuyasha-sama. It means a lot."

Inuyasha grimly nods. "I'm sorry for what he did. And maybe one day he will be too."

\--

A storm is brewing on the horizon. The air sizzles, galvanized. Bellicose clouds and tumid currents, beating wings of birds in escape and frantic fish bunkering down. Sweltering and parched, the winds lament and roar in rage to scourge the quaking isle. Hues of pewter, flint, and ash. The slate-suffused barrage of gales waging war against the stalwart peeps of a fiery sun slashing through to seep across sapphire waves. The proem to an imminent deluge, the peerless tempest of this generation.

Sesshomaru accelerates his pace, zipping silent and unseen past dirt-ridden routes and ancient coniferous limbs to where her scent draws to him. His impeccable equanimity and pride blighted and rendered immaterial. She is there and so must be he, by her side, to attest to vindicate. Lick and kiss away her misgivings and anguish, then profess and inculcate: ardor, devotion, veneration, the hundred myriad unwieldy yearnings corroding his nerves. And then she will come to see (come to realize and comply) that he is her one recourse.

He locates her on the greyed saffron sands. A solitary figure wispy and eclipsed.

"Miyo," he calls.

She doesn't respond. Fixated, she observes the unleashed squalls and advancing rains, unaware of her salt-tousled hair or stinging cheeks or the enervation in her bones. Only perceives the bewitching, singular pressure to take a step, small and steady and gradually. Into the turbulent waters, the vastness beyond. Lost to sea to never be found. And finally freed.

"Miyo," he beckons again.

She breaks from the trance and turns to him. And suddenly feels the biting gusts and flooding cold. "Sesshomaru-sama. You've returned."

"Why are you out here? Where is Chieko?"

"Her grandson is very ill. She's been taking care of him while his parents are on vacation. I told her to go home before the storm makes it impossible."

"Why are you out here?" he repeats sternly.

"I went for a walk. I guess I lost track of time. Sorry," she says dully, dazed. "Can we go inside? I'm freezing."

He consents and envelops her with his heat to defend her against the abrupt eruption of ferocious torrents, the wrath of heavens, and clashing despair. And contritely swears never to forsake her again.

\--

She takes the steaming mug of tea from him and sets it down on the chabudai. With the electricity still out, kerosene lamps and paper lanterns illuminate the room. Although wrapped under a fluffy blanket, she still trembles as she rebuts his inquisitions with incoherent, desultory digressions. Insists that she is fine, that she is sorry for that antic, the weather's better, didn't know why, how is Jaken, that she is fine. Fine, really, truly, honestly—fine. He rubs her pallid hand, uncurls her stubborn fingers and presses their wintry tips against his lips. At his tender touch, she begins to cry, emancipating the pent-up grievances that she's suppressed for months. Patiently, he comforts her as she fervidly weeps and adheres to him as cathartic convulsions rack her thin form, forlorn in her devastation and quest for solace.

He cups her exquisite face. "You are distressed. Tell me why."

"I feel so lost," she stammers between sobs. "I don't know who I am anymore. What's to become of me? What kind of a life would I lead?"

"You will have the best of lives, everything within my power to give. You shall want for nothing."

"I want to despise you, but I can't. Why is that? Why can't I hate you as I should? What's  _wrong_ with me?"

"I don't have the answers to those questions, little one. However, I can assure you that you are perfection. There can never be anything wrong with you."

She searches him with disbelief and accusation. "How can I trust anything you tell me?"

With the sweetest affection, he kisses her temple and strokes her hair and endeavors to allay her anxiety and strife. "I do not lie when I say you are flawless. The dearest thing in the world."

She yanks away, glaring censoriously. "Me or Rin? Who is 'dear' to you, Sesshomaru-sama? At this exact moment?"

"That distinction is irrelevant, for you are the same soul. What matters is that I shall treasure you until your last breath in all lifetimes."

"It  _is_  relevant!" she stridently screams, body heaving, throat inflaming, lungs constricting. "I need to know that my value, my  _existence_ , means more than this! I need to know that I am worth something  _as a person_. I don't want to be your plaything!"

He firmly grabs her shoulders and obliges her to meet him directly. "You are not my plaything. Do not ever think that. You are infinitely more precious than that."

Unconvinced, she fights against his hold, his claws cinching tight (knuckles white, scarlet eyes). Stabbing past the garment's silk, almost at her velvet skin—he reins in his force, just in time. But still she won't indulge, won't listen to him _._ She will not  _heed_. Grappling, bleary, teary, weary, protesting, shrieking. He echoes her name and jostles her once, his dispassionate mask cracking from the strain, and once more again, and yet again. This unruliness must desist.  _If she'd just stop resisting._  Let go.  _Now._ Don't touch me.  _Enough_. She submits and he slackens his grip (bruising on her wrist, charily she sits). He releases his hand and starts to speak to redress his aberrant, careless mistake—

She cuts him off and calmly declares: "Rin loved you so much, Sesshomaru-sama. As did I. I would've done anything you asked me to. What hurts the most is not that you saw me as a substitute for Rin but that you manipulated me into loving you. You didn't need to take away my family. I would've come to love you anyway, wherever I was. Because we were joined by fate. Then you ruined that destiny."

He reconstructs his visage back into its usual, disciplined veneer, his hypnotic, iconic, stoic façade varnished with beauty, enigma—tenacity. And astutely tempers his words: "I cannot forthrightly convey that I regret my actions, for they brought you to me. However, I am sorry that you have been hurt by them."

"So what happens now?" she meekly whispers.

"That is for you to decide. But remember you will always be the one thing I cannot deny myself."

A subtle, insidious, sinister reminder of their covenant.

One she can never forget. Can never break.

Nodding, she acquiesces and fastens hopelessly onto him in abdication, in renunciation. Her name, her life. Lets him hug and murmur loving endearments and palliative (contingent) troths and vows as he cuddles her flesh (enfolds her soul).  _Together forever_ abiding apart. With this lofty lord, his attrition, her only option. Depleted, she shuts her eyes and at long, long last surrenders to both fate and destiny as the wick of a nearby lantern snuffs to dust.

In their endgame of wills as the bluster of summer ebbs to slumber, a fledgling owl plaintively hoots atop the slanting shingles while the rafters groan as the raucous downpour dwindles to drizzle. Purged is the air, renewed from the ablution of autumn's inaugural typhoon. In this tranquil aftermath surrounded by green lulling palms and the earthen fragrance of sodden knolls, she drifts to sleep nuzzled in his embrace, docile and tamed.

\--

A month later, they are ready to leave for Tokyo then Stockholm and Rome and other exotic lands afar. There is so much in this large, limitless world, so many wonders for her to explore and see. The suitcases are packed and the tank fueled up, the amado planks waiting to be nailed, the furniture to be cloaked in ghostly sheets. Chieko will look after this old and dignified estate and keep its cryptic secrets as her mother and grandmothers have faithfully done for centuries.

Miyo bends to adjust her sneakers, the nephrite pendant swinging weightily down the front of her blouse. Its silver coils coruscate blindingly under the acute noon sun, noosed and secured around her throat. She bids farewell to the smiling granny and to this magical island before obediently following him into the tinted car.

 

* * *

 

**Terms & Notes**

 

 _Agape, anagapesis_ – Agapē is the highest, purest form of love in Greek philosophy. Anagapesis denotes the feelings one experiences when falling out of love.

 _Amado_ _–_ Traditional shutters used to completely seal a house from inclement weather or for security purposes.

 _Amenorrhea, dysmenorrhea_ _–_ Amenorrhea is absence of menstruation. Dysmenorrhea is the medical term for the pain from menstrual cramps.

 _Banyan_ trees and "red-haired imps" _–_ Allusion to the _kijimuna_  from Okinawan mythology.  _Kijimuna_  are red-headed and childlike prankster  _yokai_  that inhabit banyan trees.

 _Butsudan_ _–_  A Buddhist altar/shrine that can be used in households to contain memorial tablets and offerings to ancestors.

 _Chabudai_ _–_  A short-legged table used in traditional Japanese homes.

 _Chambertin Grand Cru_ _–_  A prestigious red wine produced in Burgundy.

" _Dis-moi, mon fil_ " _–_ "Tell me, my son."

 _Engawa –_  A traditional "hallway" made of wood that runs along the house; an intermediary space between the outside and the inside that can be used as a porch.

 _En passsant_ ,  _hanging pawns_ ,  _trébuchet –_  Chess terms. An en passant is a special pawn capture move. Hanging pawns is a positional structure in which two adjacent pawns are separated from other pawns. Trébuchet is a theoretical endgame position in which the first player to move loses.

 _Folie à deux_ –  "Madness of two." Roughly put, it's a mental delusion experienced by two people.

 _Fusuma_ _–_  Sliding wall panels used to separate and redefine usage of space; they were historically painted.

 _Hungry ghost_ _–_  A somewhat complicated Buddhist belief in which basically the soul of a deceased person becomes an unfortunate entity tortured by base, animalistic desires as a result of misdeeds or very inauspicious circumstances. During Ghost Festivals, offerings of food are laid out as a means to appease them.

 _Ihai_ _–_  A memorial tablet that is used for the deceased with the name of the specific individual written on it.

 _Komon_ _–_  Literally "small print." A more casual type of kimono.

 _Kume_ _–_  An Okinawan island renowned for its natural beauty.

 _Mabui_ _–_  In the Ryukyuan religion, the  _mabui_  is the unique, defining, and essential part of the self (similar to a soul). There is a belief in which a person can lose the  _mabui_  due to a shocking event or psychological trauma.

" _Mon_ chou" _–_  Literally "my cabbage" in French. A quirky term of endearment that can be used for children. The " _chou_ " refers to " _chou à la crème_ " (a cream puff). It's like calling your kid "sweetie" or "pumpkin."

 _Noro_ _–_  A priestess of the Ryukyuan religion who historically also wielded political power. There is some evidence suggesting a matrilineal succession of this role in certain communities.

 _Ormolu_ clock and Qianlong _–_ Ormolu is the gilding process of a bronze object that involves mercury; due to its high toxicity, this technique is no longer used and true ormolu clocks are very rare nowadays. Qianlong (1711-1799) was the sixth emperor of the Qing Dynasty who was fond of Western style clocks and purportedly employed a hundred craftsmen in the Forbidden City.

" _Peut-être pas_ " – "Perhaps not."

 _Ranma_ _–_  Traditional architectural panels of carved wood situated above sliding doors to let in ventilation and light; they can be elaborately decorated with nature scenes.

 _Shisa_ _–_  A guardian cultural figure of the Ryukyu Islands with canine characteristics, derived from the Chinese lion-dogs ( _shishi_ ). Statues of them are placed to ward off evil. Male  _shisa_  are depicted with open mouths to scare away any malevolent spirits. There is a real legend in which a king, with the help of a priestess, used a  _shisa_ statue to defend Naha Port against a sea dragon.

 _Sudare_ _–_  Traditional screens made from wood slats woven with string and are used to shield the verandah during the summer.

 _Zabuton_ _–_  A traditional Japanese floor cushion used for sitting.

*A Note on Okinawa: Okinawa has a unique culture distinct from the rest of Japan due to its native Ryukyuan traditions and complex history and trade relations with nearby foreign parties. This archipelago was governed by three polities in the Sanzan Period then unified under the Ryukyu Kingdom. In 1879, the Meiji government abolished the kingdom and formed the Okinawa Prefecture.

*A Note on Obon: Obon is the Japanese Ghost Festival celebrated in late summer (specific dates can vary depending on region and which calendar is used). Traditions include ritualistic cleaning of the house and ancestral graves, placing offerings at family altars, dances performed with drums, and lighting lanterns. This holiday is an important time for family reunions and honoring the dead.

*A Note on Rückenfigur: The Rückenfigur ("back figure") is a compositional artistic device in which a figure is depicted from the back while contemplating a landscape or scene before them. Caspar David Friedrich's  _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog_  is the most well-known example.

 


End file.
